They came into a central courtyard that once must have been a cool and charming haven from the bustle of city and household. Now it was choked with sand, littered with broken columns and fragments of statuary. In the midst of such desolation and destruction, Mathew was astonished to see a pool of crystalclear water—deep and blue and cool from the night’s chill.
“So this is why there has been no lack of water!”
The young man drank his fill, then opened his robes and splashed the water on his breast and neck and laved his face. Zohra, smiling, found a fragment of pottery in the shape of a scoop and helped Mathew wash his long red hair. Wringing the wet tresses out with his hands, he stared at the pool and shook his head.
“Isn’t it marvelous, Zohra, what mankind can do? Marvelous and sad. The people disappear, Sul slowly takes over their city, and yet here, in this house, somehow the machines kept this working—”
“Not machines, Mathew,” said Zohra softly, proudly. “Magic.”
Mathew stared at her a moment, uncomprehending. Then suddenly, joyfully, he threw his arms around her and hugged her close. “Magic! Your magic! You made the water! I knew you could do it! And you weren’t frightened—”
“I was more frightened of that than of almost anything, except that horrible castle,” Zohra said bluntly. She raised her dark eyes to Mathew’s blue ones. He felt her shiver and tightened his grasp on her. “But I had no choice. That man, ibn Jad, would have killed you otherwise.”
“Ah!” Now it was Mathew’s turn to shudder, and Zohra who soothed him with her touch. “I wondered,” he murmured. “That is why Khardan has been watching in the night.”
“Ibn Jad swore he would not harm you. But I don’t trust him.” Her breath caught, her voice quavered.
“What is it, Zohra?” Mathew had never seen her frightened. “It’s ibn Jad! What’s he done to you?” Anger beat in his heart with a violence that startled him. “By Promenthas! If he’s harmed you, I’ll—”
You’ll what? Attack ibn Jad? So might the lamb offer to fight the lion!
It seemed that Zohra might be thinking the same thing, for Mathew saw the corner of her lips twitch as if amused, despite her distress. Then a thought struck her, and she looked up at him in earnest, no laughter in her eyes.
“Mathew! Perhaps you can help me! It is possible to break a spell that one is under, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” said Mathew cautiously. He had the impression that there were murky waters ahead and wanted to wade into them slowly and carefully. “It depends—”
“On what?”
“On many things. What type of spell, how it was cast, what was used in the casting. It is more difficult than perhaps you imagine.” Mathew’s concern was growing as he guessed where her words were leading. “But how can ibn Jad cast a spell, Zohra? He is not a magus.” Memory of the Black Sorceress returned to Mathew forcibly and unpleasantly. Perhaps there was away. “Did he have a charm, a wand—some magical object someone could have given him?”
“It was not Sul’s magic,” Zohra answered, shaking her head. “It was his God.”
“Go on.” Mathew didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more worried. “Tell me everything.”
“I cannot,” Zobra said stiffly. “It. . . is not proper for women to discuss such things with men who. . . are not our husbands.”
“But I am another wife,” Mathew said with a wry smile. “And I must know everything, Zohra, if I am to help.”
“I . . . suppose so,” Zohra admitted. Reluctantly, refusing to look at him and sometimes speaking so low Mathew had to bend his head to hear her, Zohra told him of her encounter with ibn Jad.
“He said he would pray to his evil God, Mathew! To give me to him!” Zohra looked up fearfully; her body trembled. “And . . . Mathew. . . when I was in that. . . that place. The woman gave me something to drink that made me dream . . .” She couldn’t go on; deep rose red flushed her cheeks, and she hid her face in her hands.
“Of course,” Mathew muttered. Some sort of love potion— no, lust potion might be a better term. That explained why the female captives were so cooperative and pliable, soft clay in the hands of the Sorceress. “Did you dream of him, of Auda?” the young man asked hesitatingly. Zohra’s embarassment was catching. The blood burned in his skin.
“No, others,” Zobra mumbled, her voice muffled by her hands.
Khardan? Mathew longed to ask but did not. A flicker of jealousy flared in him. He recognized it for what it was, but—confusedly—not precisely for whom it was intended. Was he jealous of Zohra for dreaming of Khardan or jealous of Khardan for being in Zohra’s dreams? That was something he would have to work out later. Now, whether he understood himself or not, at least he understood what ibn Jad was doing—or trying to do. Very clever, Mathew thought. To use the dreams to insinuate himself into this woman’s mind, use her own faith in Gods and their power to weaken the natural barriers she had established against him.
Unfortunately this was no time to enter on a discussion of free will.
“Zohra,” said Mathew, shaking her gently so that she was forced to look up at him through a curtain of shining black hair, “half the time you don’t obey the commands of your own God. Will you give in to a stranger?”
Zohra’s eyes narrowed in thought over this argument. Coming to understand it and appreciate the irony, she even smiled slightly. “No, I will not!” Reaching out with her hand, her fingers lightly brushed Mathew’s soft, beardless cheek. “You are very wise, Mathew.”
So Khardan had said. But it wasn’t wisdom, really. It was simply the ability to look at something from several different sides, to see a problem from the top and the bottom and around the corner instead of staring at it straight on. Like seeing all the facets of the glittering jewel, instead of concentrating on just one. . .
“Why do you look at me like that?” Zohra asked.
“Because Khardan was right,” Mathew said shyly. “You are very beautiful.”
The roses bloomed in her cheeks, the fire Khardan spoke of flamed in her eyes.
How those two loved each other! Hiding within walls of pride. Each nursed wounds. Each knew the other had seen him vulnerable, her weak. Fearful that he would use this against her or she would use it against him, both daily added more stones to the wall they were constructing between them.
Khardan recognzed this, but the tasks and the problems facing both of them were so overwhelming it might be that they would never be able to tear down the wall, no matter how much they longed to.
Their people—that was what mattered to both of them and their God, their Hazrat Akhran.
A cold wind blew through Mathew’s soul. For a time he had forgotten he was a stranger in a strange land. The knowledge returned to him forcibly. He had no people, he had no one to love or to love him—at least a love he could admit to himself without writhing in shame. He had a God, but Promenthas was very far away.
“Mathew! You are so pale! Is the fever—” Her hand went to his forehead. Gently he pushed it away and pushed her away from him at the same time.
“No, I am fine. I understand that we are riding tonight?”
“If you feel like it—”
“I am fine,” he repeated tonelessly. “Just a little tired. I think I will go lie down and sleep.”
“I will come—”
“No, you must have things to do to prepare for the journey. I am not sick now. I no longer need your care.” Turning from her, he walked away.
Confused, hurt by his words, Zohra stared after the young man. The thin shoulders were hunched, the head bowed. She was reminded forcibly of someone trying to protect his body from a blow.
Too late, the blow had fallen. And would continue to fall, repeatedly, cudgeling him into despair.
“Ah, Mathew,” murmured Zohra, beginning to see, beginning to understand. “I am sorry.” Unconsciously she echoed her husband’s words.
“I am sorry.”
That night they left
Serinda, none of them ever to return.
The dead city was left to its dead.
The Book of the Immortals
Chapter 1
Throughout the seventytwo hours’ grace period Kaug had granted them, the djinn worked diligently, if not very effectively, to fortify their position. Each djinn decided he knew all there was to know about warfare, and between erecting fantastic battlements (that soared to incredible heights and would probably confound Kaug for the span of a brief chuckle) and arguing strategy and tactics recalled from battles fought forty centuries earlier, nothing much to any purpose was accomplished. Fortifications were jealously torn down as quickly as they were put up. Fights erupted constantly, there was one prolonged battle that lasted two days between one faction of djinn—who claimed that the notorious batir Durzi ibn Dughmi, who had mounted ten thousand horses and five thousand camels in an attack on Sultan Muffaddhi el Shimt five hundred and sixtythree years earlier, had defeated the said Sultan—and another faction of djinn who claimed he hadn’t.
Hidden from view by the climbing rosebush outside her window, Asrial gazed down upon the pandemonium with mingled feelings of shock, exasperation, and despair. By contrast she pictured to herself the strict, wellordered discipline of the angels, drawn up for battle in rigid formation. Why can’t the djinn see that they are defeating themselves? Why can’t they be organized?
Frustrated, she stared out the window, her face flushed with anger, her small fist clenched. Apparently she wasn’t alone in her thinking, for she heard—with a start—a voice coming from the room next to hers asking those very questions out loud.
“What is wrong with these fools? Why do they fight each other instead of preparing to fight Kaug?” The voice for all fury—was sweet and musical, and Asrial recognized the speaker as Nedjma. Which left no doubt as to the identity of the male who answered.
“You know as well as I why they do this, my bird,” Sond said quietly.
I don’t know! thought Asrial. Hurrying over to the wall, she pressed her ear against a velvet tapestry that depicted in glowing colors the magnificent wedding of Muffaddhi el Shimt’s daughter Fatima to Durzi ibn Dughmi. But the palace walls were thick, and the angel would not have been able to hear the rest of the conversation had not Sond and Nedjma walked over to stand beside the window in Nedjma’s room.
It occurred to Asrial that Sond—being present in the sera- glio—must be in considerable danger, and she wondered that the couple dared risk being observed from the garden below. Then the angel realized that she had not seen the eunuchs since yesterday, the day she’d been brought here by Nedjma. Perhaps they were working on the fortifications or, more likely, had been pressed into service guarding the body (though at his age there was not a great deal of his body left to guard) of the ancient djinn.
“No, I don’t know the reason,” said Nedjma petulantly, and Asrial blessed her. The djinniyeh added something else that the angel didn’t catch. Returning to her window, Asrial saw the couple had walked out onto a small balcony attached to Nedjma’s chambers. The angel could see and hear them quite well, she herself remaining unseen, her white robes and wings mingling with the white roses.
Nedjma stood with her back to Sond, her delicate chin high in the air. She did not wear her veil; in fact, Asrial saw, Nedjma wore very little, and what clothing she did have on seemed artfully designed to reveal more than it concealed. She was all blue silk and golden glints, emerald sparkles and pure white skin. Sond, coming up behind the djinniyeh, laid his hands upon the slender shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter, Nedjma, my flower,” he said softly. “No matter what we do, it won’t stop Kaug. Do you think we would act like this if there was a chance? We do this out of our own anger and frustration and out of the knowledge that tomorrow it will all be over.”
As he spoke, Nedjma’s chin dropped slowly, the golden hair falling forward around her in a gleaming shower.
“Don’t cry, beloved,” Sond said gently. He caught hold of a mass of golden hair and, moving it from her cheek, bent to kiss away a shining tear. Putting her hands over her face, Nedjma’s sobs became more hysterical. “I should not have told you.” Sond straightened and drew back. “I didn’t mean to make you unhappy. I only wanted you to know how little time”—he paused, a choke in his own voice—”how little time—” he repeated huskily.
Nedjma whirled to face him, the blue silk shimmering about her like a giltedged cloud. Hastily she dried her eyes and, coming to him, rested her hands upon his chest. “My own,” she whispered. “I am not crying over what you told me. It was not news. I have known it in my heart. I was weeping because it is the end.” Her arms stole around him, and she nestled her head against his chest.
“It may be the end,” Sond answered. “But, my darling, we will make it a glorious one!”
Their heads bent, their lips met in a passionate kiss. The blue silk fell to the floor of the balcony, and Asrial, her face scarlet, her eyes wide, withdrew hurriedly from the window. Leaning her burning cheeks against the cool marble wall, she heard Sond’s words echo over and over in her head.
“It doesn’t matter. . . how little time . . . the end.”
He was right. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter for the angels of Promenthas. It wouldn’t matter for the imps and demons of Astafas. It wouldn’t matter for the djinn and djinniyeh of Akhran. Kaug had grown too powerful. No weapon was mighty enough to fell him, no wall was tall enough or thick enough to stop him. They could as well try to bring down a mountain with an arrow, stop a tidal wave with a castle of sand.
And like Nedjma, Asrial had known this in her heart.
“The end . . . a glorious one.”
Lilting, breathless laughter came floating in the window with the perfume of the roses. Asrial slammed shut the casement. Blinking back the tears in her eyes, she was just about to leave when there came a knock at the ornately painted door to her room.
Asrial hesitated, uncertain whether or not to respond.
Before she had a chance, the door opened and Pukah entered.
Seeing her standing in the center of the room, her wings spread, the djinn’s cheerful expression melted like goat cheese in the sun.
“You were leaving!”
“Yes!” she said, her fingers nervously plucking at the feathers of her wings. “I’m going back to my . . . my people, Pukah! I want to be with . . . them at the . . . at the . . .” She looked down at her hands.
“I see,” Pukah said calmly. “And you were going without saying goodbye?”
“Oh, Pukah!” Asrial clasped her hands together, holding onto them as though she feared they might do something she didn’t want them to do, reach out to someone she knew she couldn’t hold. “I can’t be what you want me to be! I can’t be a woman to you as Nedjma is to Sond. I’m—I’m an angel.” The hands released themselves long enough to lift the white robes. “Beneath this there isn’t flesh. There is my essence, my being, but it isn’t flesh and blood and bone, I tried to pretend it was, for my sake as well as yours. I wanted,” she hesitated, swallowing, “part of me still wants that. . . that kind of love. But it can never be, So . . . I wasn’t going to say goodbye.”
“It was kind of you to spare me the hurt,” said Pukah bitterly.
“Pukah, it wasn’t you! It was myself I was sparing! Can’t you understand?” Asrial turned away from him. Her wings wrapped around her, enclosing her in a feathery shell.
Pukah’s face suddenly became illuminated with an inner radiance. The proud, selfsatisfied façade crumbled. Hurrying to the angel, he gently parted the white wings that surrounded her and tenderly took hold of her clasped hands.
“Asrial, do you mean to say that you love me?” he whispered, fearful of speaking such joyous words aloud.
The angel raised her head. Tears glistened in her blue eyes, but when she answered, her voice was firm and steady. “I do love you, Pukah. I will always love you.” She entwined her fIngers in his and held him fast. “I think that ev
en in the Realm of the Dead, once more without form or shape, I will still have that love, and it will make me blessed!”
Pukah fell to his knees as she spoke, bowing his head as though receiving a benediction. Then, when her words had ceased, he slowly raised his head. “I know what I am,” he said in sad and wistful tones. “I am conceited and irresponsible. I care too much for myself and not enough for others, even my own master. I’ve caused all sorts of trouble—without really meaning to,” he added remorsefully, “but it was all for my own selfindulgence. Oh, you don’t know!” He raised a hand to her lips as she was about to interrupt. “You don’t know the harm I’ve done! It was because of me that the Amir thought my poor master was a spy and tried to arrest him. It was because of me that Sheykh Zeid went to war against us instead of becoming our ally. It was because of me that Kaug stole away Nedjma and imprisoned her in Serinda. And speaking of Serinda,” the djinn continued, sparing himself no pain, “you were the hero, Asrial. Not I.”
The djinn looked very woeful and wretched.
Her heart aching, Asrial sank down on her knees beside him. “No, my dear Pukah, don’t berate yourself. As you say, you meant well—”
“But I didn’t mean it for others. I meant it for myself,” Pukah said resolutely. Standing up, he raised Asrial to her feet and gazed down at her with an unusually earnest and grave expression on his face. “But I’m going to make up for it all. Not only that”—for an instant, the old foxish glimmer appeared in the djinn’s eyes— “I’m going to be the hero! A hero whose name and sacrifice will last throughout time!”
“Pukah!” Asrial stared at him, alarmed. “Sacrifice? What do you mean?”
“Farewell, my angel, my beautiful, enchanting angel!” Pukah kissed her hands. “Your love will be the shining light in my eternal darkness!”
“Pukah, wait!” Asrial cried, but the djinn was gone.
The Prophet of Akhran Page 14